


And Carry Them To Our Grave

by AVoresmith



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Inappropriate Age Gaps, M/M, Technically AU of AU, or fanfic of fanfic, romanticized use of cancer sticks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9117499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVoresmith/pseuds/AVoresmith
Summary: First imagine a wonderfully written, miserably heartwrenching story where Kaz stays on as Big Boss's right hand all the way up until the end, playing the role of Solid Snake's mentor then acting as the third to last boss in Zanzibar Land.Okay, this is the AU of THAT AU. Where Solid Snake drags Kaz's ass back to Foxhound.(aka, sometimes you read someone else's fanfic and it ruins your life and then you write your own fanfic of their fanfic)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is straight up AU ending fanfic of [Cephied_Variable's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephied_Variable/pseuds/Cephied_Variable) fantastic [I'll Pick Up Your Bones When I'm Done](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5326337/chapters/12297908).
> 
> So as such I highly recommend you read that first, as it directly refers back to THAT story. Also if you haven't read it you should because it's amazing and don't you LIKE reading amazing things?

_"Say you’re told to bring the target in at all costs, but your communications cut out before you can receive clarification on what sort of state you’re supposed to bring them back in. You have no idea what kind of information they could have.”_

_“I bring them in alive for questioning.”_

_“They fight back.”_

_“I… take them in alive.”_

_“It’s not always that easy. He won’t be taken alive."_

_"Tough for him. I take him in alive."_

_-[I'll Pick Up Your Bones When I'm Done](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5326337/chapters/12297908)_

 

David puts off visiting Miller's old office as long he can convince himself is reasonable, but it isn't easy to find excuses when his entire life fits into one large backpack, with room left over for a few bottles. He manages to waste ten minutes unpacking with as much overstated care as possible before accepting he can only arrange a stack of books in so many ways. 

Next he makes his rounds through the compound, taking stock of what had changed in the last five years. The land; very little. The faces; too much.

The idea of mingling with new recruits makes him even more uneasy than facing his old mentor, so the only remaining options are to hunker down somewhere in a futile effort to read, or try to burn off his energy on the old obstacle course.

Except both choices inevitably would reminded him of the very man he was avoiding, and then he would be halfway into a bottle again before sundown.

He can't see any way he gets through today without downing half a dozen shots of whiskey -- not his favorite, but his drink of habit since Master Miller had upturned his life years ago -- and decides to get the hard part out of the way while sober. Then he could have amnesty to lock himself in his bunk, a conveniently private space now that he was Alpha team, and blitz out the rest of the evening. He is free of any responsibility until 0600 tomorrow.

It's a solid plan of attack, but missions he's assigned himself never seem to go smoothly. He second guesses himself all the way to Miller's old office -- current office? -- and by the time he gets there he's regretting he didn't numb his nerves down by tapping into that whiskey early.

He finds Bomber Bat standing outside Miller's office. David hasn't spoken to him since delivering a poorly expressed apology under orders five years ago. Bat still has a slight skew to his nose.

David tenses for a confrontation, but Bat's dark, bushy eyebrows just lift along with the left side of his mouth. "Heard you were back, Snake. Couldn't stay away, huh?"

_And the survivor will live out the rest of his days as a soldier._ David tries to return the smile, but it feels mechanical. "Guess not."

Bat doesn't appear to be holding any hard feelings over having his face rearranged half a decade ago, and is more interested to know why the Hell Master is back but being kept on such a short leash. David shrugs, and Bat lets on that rumors are already spreading, embezzlement a popular bet, but the only facts are that he'd had a run in with the CIA and then got transferred back to Foxhound for a sort of probation service.

David characteristically doesn't contribute more than a shrug to the gossip, and Bat lets him by with a: "Good to have you back, dude."

"Thanks, Bat. Good to be back," David says, thinking it doesn't count as a lie if even he can't tell if it's untrue.

Almost six years since the last time Snake set foot in the office, he finds it has been stripped bare. Hollowed out until it might as well be a different building entirely. No filing cabinets or book shelves, no precarious stacks of paper on the dusty desk, no coat rack. Someone even painted; the same stark grey as before, but fresh enough that it only serves to alienate the space more. And in in the middle of it; a chipping desk, an occupied folding chair, and the Hell Master staring out the window. The sunlight hits at the right angle to blur his profile, but the long blond hair and antique aviators are unmistakable.

Master Miller -- _Kazuhira Miller_ \-- doesn't stand and turn when David enters, but he can hear the pull of a bracing breath. He wonders what sort of face Miller will show him this time -- carefree, patronizing, cold and uncaring? -- and shuts the door.

The click of the latch sliding into place is as hair raising as a snapped twig mid-infiltration. Miller's hand squeezes at the handle of his cane.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Not carefree, then. Miller's voice grates out of him like it's gone to rust, leaving nothing behind but a coarse anger.

Fine, it's easier that way. 

David rebels against the urge to stand at attention -- Miller's not his commanding officer anymore -- and braces his shoulders back against the door with a soft thud instead. "Good to see you, too." He doesn't know why he sounds sullen, he certainly hadn't been expecting Miller would be happy with him. Hell, the feeling was mutual.

" _Jesus_ , kid!" Miller is out of his seat so quickly that David almost thinks he has his fancy Zanzibar issued prosthetics after all, but that's dispelled immediately by the uneven shift in his gait and the empty flap of a sleeve. 

Wherever Miller has been, clearly haven't been spoiling him. He is finally looking his age; with months of incarceration peeling layers of muscle off him until his skin sags like God got the size wrong. The atmosphere he carries around is also less formidable today, and the flinty eyes that lock onto David through dark lenses don't make him feel as small as they used to. Then again; it would be pretty pathetic if the urge to impress Miller hadn't been at least somewhat diminished by his betrayal.

"You know," Miller continues with a growl, "When Ocelot told me it was you, I thought _he has to be fucking with me_ , and _I can't believe he thinks I'd buy this_. I had to call Campbell in to verify you would actually be _stupid enough_ \--"

"Yeah?" David prompts when Miller seems like he's fishing for how to articulate his disappointment, "Stupid enough for what?"

There's a sharp crack as Miller smacks his cane into the edge of the desk. "Where the fuck do I _start_ , kid? After all your talk, in the end you're right back here? Kidnapping scientists for the US--"

David's spine seizes up, he hadn't expected Campbell to tell Miller about that.

"--Yeah! _I know about that_." Miller offers a mean smirk. "Real good work, kiddo. Could've used an operative like you in Zanzibar."

It's startling, how readily Miller says it. After all the intrigue and lies, the carefully crafted masks, now he gathers the past up like a blade and aims to draw blood.

It's also kind of... refreshing.

"I remember the recruitment speech. Decided I'd rather plant my flag here."

"Interesting choice, considering Foxhound was started by the same people."

"Your earlier work was better."

The quip rolls of David's tongue without a second thought, but Miller looks like he took an open palm across the face. He blinks, more stunned than stung, and then just closes his eyes as a crooked smile cracks across his face.

"Hah! Hah haa..." The laugh is ripped down the middle; half amusement, half pain. Only fraying threads connect them. "Holy hell. Kid, you... You've got no idea."

David is more than a little irritated to realize there is still something magnetic about his old teacher looking stripped down and bitter at the failure of his own fortifications. That after five months and uncounted empty bottles later, he's still drawn to Miller like a story only half-read.

But he's learned better than to blindly reach into the cracks in Miller's masks. Not for fear of what is waiting to grab him in the darkness, but because Miller only ever allows it for a few moments before his defenses snap shut again; usually leaving David stinging like he's left skin in a trap.

So instead of rounding the desk to shove Miller against it, David just says, "You could tell me."

Half-shrouded eyes flicker up to David's and hold long enough that David thinks he may even do it, but Miller only shakes his head. "No, David," he sounds drained. "I really can't."

David grunts his dissatisfaction, but decides not to pursue a route Miller has closed off. Not head-on, anyway.

"Fine. But are you seriously complaining about being back? No offense, Master, but you look like shit."

Miller harrumphs with more theater than necessary, and thumps his cane on the floor before stepping out from behind the desk. His vulnerabilities fade out of view like they were only a trick of the light. "You're a few decades too late to be appealing to my vanity. And I've been locked up in worse places. Come on, let's take a walk." David peels away from the door, habitually caving to Miller's air of assumed command, and follows him out. "Bat, Snake is relieving you of your babysitting duties."

"Er--" Bat shifts an uncertain glance from the ex-Hell Master to Snake.

Miller doesn't wait for either of them, moving with the usual hitch in his gait down the narrow corridor.

"I've got it, Bat. Go grab dinner." David shares a half-formed smile over Bat's uncertain shrug and follows after Miller.

It had been a hot day, for Washington at least, and warm air sinks into David's skin as they step out of the weakly air conditioned building. The sun is still well above the horizon, even though it has to be past 1800, and David squints against the bright light as they set off for the tree line.

Nostalgia doesn't usually get to David. He really doesn't have much to be nostalgic _over_ , but what few memories he does have an impulse to turn over and over again, until they are polished by his constant handling, took place at or because of Foxhound. And for a moment he feels those years crystallizing, fragile but so clear, within his chest. He had walked this same path a thousand times before, _crawled_ it more than once. Even tagged along at the Hell Master's side a few times.

He hadn't been here long. But he'd been here longer than anywhere else.

"You know, you can't actually order me and Bat around anymore," David says, more to break up the silence than because he really expects Miller to start behaving like a prisoner to an organization he'd helped build.

"Oh? But here you are, obedient as ever."

"I'm out here because I _wanted_ to talk to you."

"Is that what's going on?"

There's a trap here, but David doesn't really care to avoid triggering it. He mutters, "I brought you here, didn't I?"

"And _we_ both know that, who else?"

"...no one other than the Commander and the XO need to know."

"Not bragging to the other recruits? No, of course not, my story is 'classified'. So, tell me, how would you say our, ahem, "relationship" looks to Bat right now?" There's a teasing but hard edge to Miller's voice, the sound of the Hell Master grading your performance and finding it imperfect.

"...it looks like I'm taking orders from you." David growls, getting a sudden inkling of what a challenge Miller could make navigating the chain of command in a place where he had personally taught all of the highest level operatives.

"Not just _that_ ," Miller hums, "but _passing them on to others_."

David scowls into the forest. Miller was right, not that he expects it to really be an issue with Bat, who was always happy to find a way to skirt best practices. But it was a bad start to his return to Foxhound, especially when, as happy as Campbell was to have him back on the roster, he'd be an idiot not to keep a wary eye on David after he'd only signed the contract for the chance to talk to his old mentor again.

"Hn," David grunts to hide his embarrassment. "Shouldn't you be taking advantage of mistakes like that instead of pointing them out?"

Miller lifts his head from where he had been focusing on the slow descent of their path, which was just enough to be treacherous to someone on a poorly made prosthetic, and his aviators flash at the same moment the corners of his mouth tug upwards. "Well, you know me, David. Still a creature of habit. Anyway, it's no fun if you make it too easy."

_Fun_ is a word out of place in this conversation, now that David can recognize the hollow note behind Miller's gentle ribbing. The familiarity is real, perhaps more so than it has ever been, in part because David can no longer be fooled into believing that a smile and a bit of banter from Master Miller meant...

Meant anything at all.

_The world you live in is an illusion_ , and at moments like this, David misses not being able to spot the magic trick.

So he says nothing, and lets silence settle around their slow trek into a shallow, sparsely wooded valley.

Last time he'd seen Miller, his mentor's neck had been black and thickly swollen with bruises, put there out of necessity when David decided not to let Miller's death wish get in the way of his orders to bring a traitor in alive.

Miller hadn't made it easy. David had taken a bullet to his sixth rib, right side, to disable Miller's prosthetics during their fight. Then, when all else was said and done, and David hauled his mentor's beaten body across his shoulders while Holly covered their retreat, Miller had teased David's guard down with stories of being carried out of Afghanistan in a similar style, only to try to shove a thumb into his eye at the first good opportunity. He hadn't gotten the feeling Miller really wanted to kill him, but his mentor's desire for a romantic double-suicide by Foxhound operative had become increasingly obvious as the closer they got to the evac point, the more desperately Miller struggled.

The final escape from Zanzibar is still a blur. Quips exchanged with Holly White during the times Miller's dead weight was slung across his shoulders stick in his memory like bright points of normalcy. In truth, David had been grateful to have her there. If not, he might have given in, just waited a few extra seconds to release Master Miller's throat, granted him the escape he so desperately wanted, lied to the Commander and claimed Miller had managed to force his hand.

Instead, Miller woke up with his arm handcuffed to the inside of a chopper, tightly buckled into his seat with no option to do anything stupid, unless he wanted to bite off his own tongue.

_"Are you sure he's dead?" Miller croaks without turning away from the matted forest of Tselinoyarsk blurring by below. The question startles David out of a quiet, flirtatious game with Holly where they both pretend Christmas festivities are still on. That he'd ever planned any to begin with._

_"Yeah," David responds, both sincere and sincerely hopeful that his doubt doesn't creep into his voice. He'd been sure the last time, too. Sure that there was no way a man with a crater of a face could ever get up, ever be healed, ever create new memories to haunt him, ever... "It's over, Master."_

_"Don't lie to me about this, David." There's a vibrant quiver in Miller's voice that stands in high contrast to lifeless appearance. "This time... I have to know. I have to _know_ that he's not fucking coming back."_

_"I'm sure." David lies with same soft voice that comforts feral dogs. "Big Boss is dead, Master."_

There had been no more talk, at least not from the prisoner, and by the time they touched down at the US Garrison Hohenfels in Germany, Miller had receded almost entirely within himself. David returned to Washington state, after an east coast pit stop to debrief in D.C., with the assumption that the CIA would be lucky to learn how to bring in Marv before Miller decided to join his Boss in hell.

And when he decided to sell his soul -- or at least its next four years -- back to Foxhound to get Miller out, he'd spent more time than he cared to admit mulling over how this meeting would go. If Miller would have rotted inside of himself, leaving nothing a miserable husk -- it wouldn't be the first time David had seen it happen. Or if his old mentor would hate him for what he'd done, or what he'd _not_ done. Or...

Or if it would be like this, with Miller picking up their former camaraderie like they hadn't tried to kill each other barely half a year ago. Like Zanzibar Land and everything that lead up to it was distant, forgotten, and forgiven.

It pisses him off, somewhat. But David suspects he's grateful for it a little bit more.

"Master..." Miller's head comes up at the old title. David wonders if he should even still be calling him that. What he might call him instead. "What are we doing out here?"

"Just sick of being stuck in doors, David. Solitary does that." Miller hums, as if entertained by a stray thought. "Hell, maybe I'll set up camp out here. That sounds more interesting for the recruits than keeping a vigilant eye on a shut door, doesn't it?"

"If that's your plan, maybe I'll volunteer for the night shift."

Miller's bark of laughter sounds too surprised to be fake. " _Holy shit_ , kid." The humor irons out quickly, replaced by sardonic concern. "You know, when I was your instructor, it was pretty cute. But now that you know the truth? I'm starting to worry about you."

David grunts, "What truth is that? I know even less about you than I did when you left."

"You learned the most important part; I'm a traitor. To you, and every other recruit, to Campbell, Foxhound... _America_ , heh." There's a wry levity to Miller's words.

"And now you're an instructor again. Shouldn't you try telling me something I don't know?"

Miller's eyebrows lift, but with the characteristic quirk of his lips that usually accompanies David giving him lip. "No lie, kid. I missed your sass."

A year ago, hearing that would have inspired a staccato drum against the inside of David's ribs. Now the steady beat only suffocates within his clenched chest.

Their slow downward stroll finally brings them to a stream rippling across an uneven rock bed where the valley dips. This time of year it can be crossed without getting water in your boots, and David expects to see Miller crash through without slowing despite the obvious discomfort his leg is giving him.

Instead, Miller angles toward a large boulder that recruits often used as a bench and hefts himself onto it, first with a tight grunt, then a sigh as he rubs the heel of his palm above his left knee.

"New leg a bad fit?" David asks, hovering at the edge of the water.

"New leg is an old piece of shit."

Only a hint of frustration colors Miller's tone, and David thinks of the bottles stashed under his bunk back at the barracks. "Just the way you like it?"

"...Heh." Miller huffs after a wordless beat. "Weren't you just complaining about not knowing anything about me?"

"Somehow, every time I figure something out, I just end up with more questions." David grumbles, but can't ignore the inappropriate satisfaction he enjoys at being right about something. And since they are taking a break, he shuffles a cigarette into his hand.

There's silence while David lights up, then: "Give me one of those, will you?"

David doesn't hide his surprise, but he also barely hesitates to drop the lighter and a cigarette into Miller's open palm. "I thought you didn't smoke?"

"Yeah, well." Miller pinches the filter between dry lips and flicks the zippo to life like he's done it every day of his life. The first, deep lungful is released, thready and black, along with something else; a shiny veneer that seems to slough off his narrowed frame. "With my luck, I'll only get cancer in one lung."

Even looking the oldest and weakest David's ever seen him, there's something undeniably attractive about Miller perched on a sunbaked boulder, taking a drag while softened by the afternoon light. He's wearing a set of fatigues the recruits are issued, meaning he probably has little else to his name right now, but there's a certain peace to be witnessed in that. Like men with nothing to own and nothing to live for aren't much more than animals, and there's at least a part of David that's always thought that might be the way to go.

"Still looking to catch up to your boss?" David asks as he takes a seat. It's easy to be casual about this, somehow. There wasn't much point in toeing around the subject when Miller had all but begged David to kill him last time they met.

But he isn't surprised to hear Miller brush him off with a smoke-warmed growl, "We're not out here to talk about what _I_ want, David. Don't you think it's time you answered my question?"

"Thought we were out here so you could stretch your legs."

"Always been good at multitasking."

"Hm." David stalls with a long drag, knowing what Miller wants but wary to give it up. "What was it again?"

Miller's next inhale is sucked in through thinning patience, and if he hadn't sat on the man's right, David suspects he might have gotten smacked. "Now's not the time to be cute, kid. Why _the hell_ am I here? Why are _you?_ "

David hears a click of his teeth as his jaw tightens at Miller's patronizing ire. In a lot of ways, it is still difficult to think of them as equals. Even though Miller's 'rehiring' was more of an indentured servitude to Foxhound that David had bargained for in exchange for bringing in Dr. Marv. One crippled traitor for a scientist poised to overturn the fossil fuel industry almost overnight? Everyone with half a brain would say that David had undersold himself.

Hell, David doesn't even really disagree.

"You know... after Zanzibar, I thought it would be Outer Heaven all over again. Shadows taking different shapes, sure, but the same basic routine. I guess I figured I'd be ready this time." Next to him, Miller simmers but waits. He can't remember the Hell Master ever refusing to hear him out. "And there was some of that, but mostly… nothing changed. Instead of Zanzibar I just keep thinking about the first time I fought him, as much in the last few months as I did the year after it happened."

An illustrated sigh is forced out of Miller's lungs. "Kid, if we could just strategize away our demons..."

David shakes his head, "I know. That's not it. It's just... I remember. I remember it damn near perfectly. He was _dead_ , Master. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. But -" He hesitates, hopes Miller will interrupt, then presses forward without giving him much of a chance. "...He told me something, in '95. Before we fought."

David holds his breath for a moment. Saying it out loud feels like a confession, admitting that he's living a life he knows nothing about. But isn't confronting that the point? "He said-- _The world you live in is an illusion._ "

There is a harsh noise from Miller, something David identifies as amusement even though it's so brittle and bitter it couldn't claim to have anything in common with a laugh. From this angle, David can just make out the pained creases in his eyes, before Miller curls forward and pinches the bridge of his nose, hiding all but a lopsided smile.

And after such a complexly personal reaction, all _Kazuhira Fucking Miller_ says is; "Did he."

Disappointment floods David's stomach so quickly he feels queasy, and the faux camaraderie of the moment is suddenly suffocating. He launches up from the rock and rounds on his former mentor. " _Dammit_ , Master! You want to know why I brought us both back here?" He grabs Miller by the shoulders, shoving him back so that there's little choice but to meet David's eyes. "Because everyday I wake up and I don't know what the hell _happened_ during the last seven years of my life!"

This close, with his shadow falling across Miller's glasses, David can for once clearly make out wide-eyed, unguarded surprise.

David heaves out a breath that feels too big for his lungs. "I want answers. And I think you might be the only person alive who has them."

Miller's gaze flickers down, and David feels it tracking along his throat, to his shoulders, and finally down the arm holding him. Then away entirely, with a self-effacing smile. Miller pulls the spent cigarette from his mouth. "I'm not the only one," he finally concedes. "But if you have any luck in your life at all, kid, I'm the only one you'll ever catch."

It's frustrating, how easily a tiny bit of give from Miller abates his anger. Or maybe it's just the sight of a man he'd felt compulsively drawn to for years looking almost -- what would he even call that wry submission? Abashed? -- looking fucking _abashed_.

David releases Miller but presses on his chin with the heel of a hand, Miller allows the redirection as if he was expecting it, and doesn't resist when David's fingers drag up through the bristly hairs of his jaw and across his cheekbone. "So, I've caught you."

For a moment, Miller tilts into the soft touch, little different than the last time David had been so bold. Then he dons a smile so calculatingly patronizing that David again thinks he should have just kissed him.

"Kiddo, are you here to flirt, or get information?"

After that, there's really no choice but to withdraw. " _Really_?" David grumbles as he sits down again, taking a final drag on his forgotten cigarette before rubbing it out. " _You're_ trying to tell me those don't mix?"

"Are you calling me a hypocrite?"

"You've got to be kidding." Genuine irritation adds an extra layer of gravel to his voice.

"Haha. Of course I am." Miller's grin is bemused. "I really fucked up with you, didn't I?"

"You mean your recruitment plan?"

"Mmm." Miller snubs and pockets his cigarette butt before standing. He has to lean heavily on his cane to find his feet. "I thought you wanted to know about Outer Heaven?"

David grunts, but doesn't argue with Miller's unsubtle change of subjects. At least he's being baited with information he's after. "I want to know everything you know. But that's a start."

"I really don't think you do." David scowls and watches Miller's lips curl up in response. "But, alright. At least this one isn't all that complicated. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't figured it out already."

"If there's a trick to surviving half a dozen bullets to the face, you didn't cover that in training."

There's the faintest flinch from Miller, a tiny jerk between his shoulder blades while the rest of him wears the guise of a self-satisfied instructor. "Ohh, you're way off track, kiddo. Been having some trouble with this particular thought exercise?"

_Unbelievable_. "I didn't bring you here for more lessons. Just tell me how he survived."

"And you'll believe me? How many times have I lied to you, David?" Miller tuts, and waggles a finger like David is still twenty-two and his earnest pupil, but there's a mean tilt to his smirk. " _Ah-ah_ , be honest, you still have no idea."

David grimaces and feels his face burn. He should have expected that after being exposed for what he is, Miller would just turn _that_ into the show, make it his new mask.

"And," Miller continues theatrically, "you aren't going to get anywhere by relying on your disreputable elders to tell you the truth. So, let's take stock. What do you know?"

It's annoying and nostalgic to be talked down to like this again. Annoying that it's nostalgic.

But he does as he's told -- and doesn't he always? -- starting with the most basic facts. "In 1995 I was sent to Outer Heaven by Big Boss to make contact with Gray Fox and locate and destroy a weapon known as Metal Gear. I completed both objectives, but toward the end of the mission, Big Boss began to deliberately interfere and I had to stop relying on his support. Eventually he confronted me, claiming to be the leader of Outer Heaven. We fought. I won. I beat him unconscious, then emptied a clip into his brain."

Miller listens quietly without comment, turning over small stones in the water with his cane. "Did you?"

"I..." _had to have._ He remembers the flashing lights, how they got dimmer by the second with a huge man like Big Boss pressing down on his neck. Then all light going out, blocked by a fist that looked and felt as large as his head. And he remembers the sticky wet drag moments later, when he pulls his own fist out of a crater left in his Commander's face. He remembers finding it strangely hard to go any deeper, as if he had compacted so much bone and flesh that it created a buffer, preventing him from driving his hand straight through the man's head like was what he was trying to do, trying to make _sure_ he would never ever _ever stand again, ever look at him, ever make him fear for his life, ever--_

David finds himself staring at his knuckles, rubbing over a lattice of scars left from having split the skin over them countless times. "I was there. I... there's some blank spots, but..."

"Hmm. So you blocked out parts of it?" When Miller goes soft, it never sounds pitying. It sounds like understanding. David wonders what moments Miller will both never be able to forget or fully recall.

"For a few minutes. It's more like... Hn, like I was too busy trying to survive to remember how I did it." David digs his cigarettes out again. He lights two. "It happens sometimes, when things get dicey."

Miller accepts the second cigarette without comment, resting his hip on the rock next to David. "Your reptile brain kicks in?"

"Yeah, you could put it that way." David focuses on the acrid taste burning into his tongue. "At one point he almost had me, I couldn't breathe, wasn't thinking at all. And I can guess what must have happened after that. But next thing I actually _remember_ \-- He was on the ground."

But somehow, reducing Big Boss's face to a wreckage of flesh and bone hadn't been enough. Had he really heard that faint gurgle of breath from an airway flooding with blood, even over the klaxons? Or had he just felt the rise and fall of the barrel chest under him? Either way, he'd been alive. And for a moment it had all felt so obvious, so hopeless. He was a rookie, of course he couldn't defeat Big Boss, _of course_ his Commander wouldn't go down from something like having his skull crushed into his brain. But running wasn't an option, he'd need something heavier, he'd need-- _he spots it in the corner of his vision, a too-sharp gleam of light on a metallic edge. Big Boss's gun._

All his second guessing came later. At the time, he hadn't hesitated at all.

Recounting events he's thought about nearly every day for the last five years distracts him, and it takes David several moments to realize that Miller has also gone quiet. When he looks up, he catches his mentor frozen in a look of distant sorrow, shoulders hunched up, fingers pressing a cigarette to pale lips. Fine tremors shake his hand.

"Master?"

Miller starts, then inhales like he'd been holding his breath. "Yeah, David. Sorry, you um..." Miller sounds disoriented, as if in a few seconds he had lost the thread of the conversation. "You did the right thing."

David shakes his head, unsure of why he is even being reassured. " _How_? He... survived, somehow, and..."

"No. No, hold up." Miller bites down on his cigarette, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a frustrated scowl. David watches him drag the pieces of his mask back in place. "For once that sharp memory of yours is faulty, so you're fixating on that and asking the wrong questions. You need to step back. How does a man die twice?"

"You're not going to tell me he was a zombie, are you?" He means it as a joke, but there's a real question buried in there. He's seen some inexplicable shit since joining Foxhound.

"Heh. No. I think even I would have drawn a line at following him then."

"Good to know you have some standards."

Something thuds against David's calf and he looks down to see Miller has smacked him with the cane. "Focus, kid."

David huffs out a fog of smoke. It's true that he's been fixated for months, _years_ on the memory of putting an ugly end to Big Boss in '95. Processing finding him alive again in Zanzibar had been easier if he told himself that the legend had superhuman abilities that allowed him to _become_ that legend. Better than letting himself believe his memories had been altered. But if his memories aren't the cause, and if Big Boss isn't some freak of nature…

"No one dies twice," David replies slowly, a nauseating realization sinking into him. "But two different men can die once."

Miller seems to deflate. "There you go."

"But how could-- _Twins_?" David growls, wondering if it can be both that simple and that convoluted. As if he would mistake his Commander, the man who had trained him -- "I saw him, _I fought him_. Big Boss isn't someone you can just impersonate."

"Are you sure you saw him? Really got a good look?"

David opens his mouth to argue, he remembers it so clearly but... Did he? The darkness had made it hard to track him, he would only catch flashes bathed in red light, shadows splashed across corrugated metal. When Big Boss had been on top of him, crushing the life out of him, had he really seen his face, or just rough strokes of a man who looked like his Commander? He remembers blood on split and broken lips, a smile, one wide eye. _None of this is real. Foxhound isn't real--_

Beside him, Miller drags in a ragged breath. And when he speaks, the words sound cracked around the edges, like they are fragile and barely holding together. "The Boss, he... well, you know. He's not like anyone else, and it's easy to believe it can't be duplicated."

"You're serious..." _Pulling his fist out of the hole beaten into his face, then plunging it right back in, the satisfying liquid smack as blood arcs up and in stop-motion under the strobing lights each time he drives his knuckles into Big Boss's face._ David feels his pulse ratcheting skywards takes a long, careful drag before he dares ask the question; "Then who the _hell_ was that?"

"A phantom." Miller is pulling away again, on his feet and pacing in the shallow waters. "Someone made in his image," a sour smile peels his worn face, "to take the Boss's place when it was convenient for him to drop off the radar."

"Made?"

"Hypnosis, facial reconstruction surgery and then some. Training, experience…" Miller spits the words as if he doesn't like their taste. "Anyone can become Big Boss if you apply the right techniques."

"....sounds like you didn't approve."

Even though Miller wasn't being subtle, he still startles at being called out on it. He looks down. The knuckles on his cane go white. "Well... No one likes every job they're handed."

"You knew him." It's not a question. There's a lot of things about Miller that David doesn't know, but one thing he's pretty sure on is that he's not a man to get tightly wound up over ethics. It was always the binding snarls of intimacy, not the fundamental injustices, that widen the cracks in his foundations.

Unfortunately, knowing what will get under Miller's skin doesn't mean he yet can predict what he'll find there.

Miller pins him with a flat glare and words serrated around their edges. "No one _knew_ him. You can't _know_ a phantom. They're just shadows, reflections of our darkest sides, haunting us in case we ever start to think the past can be forgotten."

"Master..."

"You didn't kill a man in Outer Heaven, David. You exorcised a ghost."

_A blood-flecked smile. The suffocating weight of that massive body, crushing him against the concrete floor._ "He felt... pretty real."

Miller sucks in a breath so coarse it sounds like it scrapes his throat all the way down, and turns away. "I… yeah. I know," and his silhouette of stiff shoulders and an uneven stance as he smokes and refuses to let David see his face feels so familiar and miserable that David has to summon up the memory of Miller walking out of his apartment in '96 to remind himself to stay where he is.

There's something almost fanatical about the way Miller describes the 'phantom'. He had gotten the same way in Zanzibar when pressed for the motives of his betrayal. Dragging out route convictions with the same desperate practicality that makes David reach for a fresh fifth every few days.

Maybe they've both been haunted by the same ghost.

Miller had been right about the shadow. It had followed him everywhere, into beds and bottles. It gathered at his heels every time he pointed his feet down a new path. Hell, often it was out ahead of him before he'd taken a single step, reminding him of what he had done, what it meant, and why he didn't belong anywhere but the very place he was avoiding.

Except, it turns out he hadn't beaten his Commander to death with his own swollen fists years ago. Hadn't straddled Big Boss and punched him until he could no longer tell whose blood he was spattered with.

No, he'd done that to a doppelganger, an imposter -- and, based on Miller's obvious guilt -- a man even more Big Boss's victim than David himself.

David carefully collects the new information and puts it away to be investigated in detail later. Likely half a dozen shots later.

There's a more pressing revelation to contend with; Big Boss is really dead.

In Zanzibar, David had turned his former Commander into a living torch, watched him struggle to continue the fight even as the stench of burning meat surrounded him like a cloud. Big Boss hadn't screamed, just marched on David like he'd come straight back out of the hell Miller had been so desperate to join him in. And David had fed the flames, lighting him up again and again, finally leading the legend, the monster, across a spill of fuel that had burned so hot David had to stand back and just watch as his skin peeled off in blackened curls.

The battle had been strangely hard to internalize; the memory always derailed not by disgust at what he had done, but the secret conviction it hadn't been enough. He would remember pulling the trigger over and over, and the shock it sent up his arm each time, the fragments of shredded bone and brain splashing over his hand and wrist and think, if that wasn't enough, what could fire do?

So he drank, and waited for Campbell to call again. To tell him about rumors of a one-eyed man building a reputation as an undefeatable super soldier in some war torn corner of the globe.

David doesn't remember finishing his last cigarette or starting up another.

"When Commander Campbell called me, about the Marv job… at first I thought it was going to be him again."

There's a silence so long that David wonders if Miller is ignoring him, or is so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't heard. Then a visible shudder runs all the way up Miller's back, shaking him back to the present. "Afraid you didn't finish the job, kid?"

"I'd thought I'd finished it the first time."

"And now that you know?"

He doesn't really want to say it. He has enough memories of Miller falling apart on their escape through Tselinoyarsk that he'd prefer to never see it again.

But there's no future for a man still hoping for the chance to chase the past.

David swallows, "I killed him. I… watched him die. I'm sure."

David can hear Miller's breath hitch, and drops his barely touched cigarette into the water. It hisses out and is swept slowly downstream, and David thinks that all he wants is six or ten shots, as soon as possible. He'd have to deliver Miller to another senior recruit first. He gets to his feet.

"It's alright, David." Miller's voice is soft enough that David freezes, lest he muffle it under a splashing footfall. His mentor is still facing away from him, still as a statue with the water eddying around his tripod stance. "I always knew-- well, suspected you'd be the one to stop him."

Blood rushes immediately to David's head, threatening to drown out Miller's quiet confessions and David rasps out a desperate " _Why?_ "

But Miller squares his shoulders, turns toward the bank, and David can feel the moment distort, stretching like a bubble just before it pops. In a second Kazuhira Miller is going to brush him off, smile and force him to play along as if he said nothing.

So David grabs him by the arm and yanks him back with strength meant to unbalance him. Miller stumbles on wet stones and his shitty prosthetic and has to rely on David's hand around his upper arm to keep from tumbling into the water, "Shit, David!"

"Not this time," David growls, ignoring to the voice in the back of his head trying to warn him he's out of line. "You can't say shit like that and just walk away again. _Why me_? Foxhound was around for years before I got here, why groom a rookie with no name from nowhere?"

"Let go, kid, this isn't--"

There's an angry warning rising in Miller's voice, and David doesn't give a damn. He shakes him so hard Miller's teeth clack together. "Why _just_ me? I know you weren't yanking the others around. If you wanted recruits for your boss, didn't you hedge your bets a little too much? Seems kind of sloppy--"

That's as far as he gets before the tip of Miller's cane is thrust at the tender point under his jaw.

It's an inelegant move, with Miller's only fighting arm hindered. The cane scrapes the side of David's chin before he snatches it away.

Miller snarls, throws his weight into twisting them both down into the water, but the facts are: Miller is unarmed, underweight, and bearing additional handicaps in the form of a flimsy prosthetic and slippery, uneven terrain. It would be easy to throw him into the stream to cool off, but it reminds David too much of pressing his mentor's face into black mud until his struggling weakened, so instead he sidesteps to let Miller slide past him, then grabs and hauls the older man back against his torso. He spins Miller's own cane up to press against his windpipe while wrenching his arm back.

"Answer me," David insists, locking Miller into a basic interrogation hold. He didn't _need_ to growl directly into Miller's ear, but doubts his mentor would expect anything less.

He's ready for Miller to spit and kick, having now spent hours with the side of him that would prefer to fight until dead or knocked unconscious than give an inch. And he's even more ready to be scolded with words both confident and patronizing, despite Miller's weakened position. What he doesn't expect is the laugh, and its throaty mix of interest and open antipathy. "Oh, _fuck you_ ," Miller grates out with such seething vitriol that David almost releases him, then _doesn't_ because he doubts Miller's ever shared a more honest sentiment with him.

"Sure," David shoots back. "But first, don't you think I deserve some answers? You and Big Boss dragged me into this. And you're _going_ to tell me why."

Miller struggles in his grip and David twists his arm until he feels his mentor's back arch and stiffen in response to the pain. "Kid…" he gasps, the acid in his voice dissipating quickly, "if I could be counted on to give people what they deserve... haah ha, then neither of us would be here. You- you've really gotta stop thinking I'm a nice guy just because I've been a little soft on you."

David simmers, says nothing, but loosens his grip on his mentor's arm by a fraction. Miller relaxes back against him, head resting on David's shoulder, as if there isn't still a cane across his throat.

For how inappropriately familiar this situation has become, Miller's smile is darkly sardonic. "As fun as this is, you might as well just let go. We both know you're not going to kill me. Hell, you're not even going to break my arm."

_I might dislocate it_ , David grumbles silently, but already knows he's kidding himself. Miller might enjoy his own pain, but David doesn't, and his instructor's lessons are still accurate; if he can't even bluff his way through an interrogation, he's already failed it.

But that doesn't mean they are done.

David removes the cane from across Miller's throat, skimming the edge of it down his front with a light touch that makes Miller's breath catch.

"Heh," David can't help a bit of a smirk as he releases Miller's arm, turns him around and kisses him.

And is kissed back with a calculated intensity he isn't quite prepared for, but moves with like he would a punch his opponent leaned into. It's not a _nice_ kiss; Miller bites -- not to break skin but hard enough to dissuade any notions of sweetness. It occurs to David that while it might be bullshit that Miller doesn't like nice, it perhaps isn't bullshit that he _does_ like Not-Nice.

In nearly all other circumstances, David would be fine with that, would give as hard as his partner wanted to get. But if he learned anything from Miller's betrayal, it was the danger of following his lead. So when Miller digs into David's hair with a tight grip and deftly dominates the kiss, Snake yields. And when Miller presses against him as if daring David to not lose ground, he takes half a step back, then draws Miller to him again with a touch on his back.

He remembers once being surprised by Miller's density, and now, with his hands scraping up Miller's sides, he's struck by the opposite. How much more fragile he's gotten in under half a year. Miller may not have been a stray before, but now David can feel his ribs like a dog who's been surviving off scraps and roadkill, his master never to return.

And though David will keep that observation to himself, from the way Miller stiffens, exhales humid air across his lips and then tries to disengage, it almost feels like Miller keyed in on his thoughts. "Goddammit, Dave--"

David doesn't let him finish, Miller is still flush up against him and this time David leads the kiss, guiding with his hand cupping a scratchy cheek. Miller relents, so David asks for more, tugging his mentor's hair tie loose enough that he can burrow his fingers in close to the scalp.

It can't last, David already knows Miller won't let it. For the length of a breath David gets to feel pins clicking into place within a lock, but before he can open a single door it's over. Miller gasps a fresh lungful of air and shoves at David's chest -- disarmed, frustrated, glaring; all barely masked by his askew glasses.

David nudges the hinge with his thumb to settle them on straight.

Miller expels a shuddering exhale and David takes some pleasure in the fact that at least his mentor can't feign being unaffected this time.

"I'm telling you, kid. It's a bad idea." Miller grates out as he takes a step back. David allows it, bringing Miller's cane around and holding it out for him.

"No offense, Master. From where I'm standing, you don't have a lot of room to warn me off of bad ideas."

Miller grabs the handle of his cane with a grimace, "Play that card all you want, kiddo. I've been a hypocrite longer than you've been alive."

The disgruntled dismal isn't a surprise, but it inspires David to hang onto Miller's cane with a juvenile stubbornness. Miller's fortifications aren't all the way back up; he could push harder, shove Miller against the boulder in a way he was pretty sure his mentor would enjoy. But that would fall under the category of giving into Miller's pace.

Miller tugs for his cane again, and sighs when it isn't immediately released. "David… It's a bad idea _and_ it's not going to get you what you want. I'm a lot better at keeping secrets than I am at staying out of the wrong beds."

David feels a flush hit his cheeks and lets go of Miller's cane with an embarrassed scowl. It's not an unfair assumption to make, but he doesn't have the words to explain how wrong it is. And even if he did, he doesn't trust Miller with the truth.

It's a couple of stumbling steps for Miller to get out from between David and the nearby boulder. When he reaches the shore he straightens his hair, then turns back toward the main camp without looking back. "Thank you for joining me on my walk, David." Miller animates his voice with a forced cheer. "When we get back you can hand me off to one of the others. I need to be on good behavior and not go missing too long if I want Campbell to call off this ridiculous babysitting plan."

David sighs, turns his face up toward the sky that is only just turning a pale pink as thin cloud cover mixes with a sun that will still take hours to properly set, and then moves to follow Miller back up the hill. He tells himself he can't smoke again and then takes out his cigarettes anyway. It'll hold him over until he gets back to his bunk where his real vice waits.

"You think he'll call it off?" David asks, picking up his cue only about thirty seconds late and making no attempt to match Miller's false buoyancy.

"I think so. He's pretty pissed, but once the recruits start complaining about wasting their time on me, he'll give in. He's always been too soft on you kids."

"I wouldn't call it a waste of time, you're not exactly a low level criminal."

"No, but I am short two limbs, over fifty, and locked in a compound with some of the world's best and brightest." As if to emphasize his point, Miller's words and breathing get more strained as they march up the uneven terrain. "I don't think he needs to worry too much about me even getting over the fence, much less disappearing."

"You don't think you could do it?"

Miller hums, and there is a quiet, tired warmth to it. His response comes slowly enough that David can guess he chose the words carefully. "Haven't been in the field like that in years, David. And really, why bother when there's nowhere to go?"

_Ah… yeah_. "...never thought of going home for real?"

"Japan, you mean?"

"The way you talked about your mother's village sounded pretty nostalgic."

Miller doesn't answer immediately, focused on struggling up a miniature staircase made of jutting rock. He inhales hard through his nose before each step. David doesn't offer him a hand, and at the top Miller pauses to catch his breath. "My mother's village was firebombed by America in '44, I've never been there." Miller exposes his own lie with careful neutrality before shrugging and returning to his trudge uphill. "And Japan hasn't been home in a long, long time."

David inhales on his cigarette, as he follows wordlessly after Miller. He's not sure what to make of the small surge of honesty -- and he _feels_ it was the truth, though he's been wrong before. It's another jigsaw piece that David collects, labels with a question mark, and puts aside.

_Home is a state of being_ , Miller had told him once, while David was trapped on the wrong side of collapsed bridge, not ten feet away from the mangled body of woman who might have been a friend, if he'd known her longer, _once you know who you are and what you want, you can be at home anywhere_. David has wasted hours on that particular puzzle, not usually while sober. Wondering if the number of houses he had occupied were the reason he was nearing thirty and still can't sincerely say he knows who he is, or if not being able to define himself is why he still feels as rootless as he did at thirteen.

When particularly drunk, lying on the floor, thoughts skipping back to the same track like a damaged record, he asks himself why it sometimes feels like Miller knows him better than he does himself.

And then he gets ideas about using the only leverage he has to trap his traitorous old instructor in a camp with him for four years.

David watches Miller struggle up the shallow incline and tries to determine if it was really due to his age and a cheap prosthetic, or if Miller is playing up the difficulty so no one would believe he has a chance of making it out of here on his own.

If it is a performance it is a good one. But weren't they always?

They finish the climb in silence; David unsure if he has passed up the chance to hear more truths or more lies, too caught up in trying to tell them apart.

This is why he likes the physicality of sex. It's a lot easier to read someone with your hands on them. Then again, Miller probably knows that, too.

As they break out of the forest, Miller squints up at the sky and adjusts the glasses that had slipped down his nose. "Forgot how fucking long the days up here get in the summer," he sighs and sets off toward the building he and David had left a little over an hour ago, flicking his cane out between steps. "I'm going to my office, whoever you're handing your job to can spy on me there."

David glares at his back, debating if he wants to be contrary simply because Miller was ordering him around again, or if he'd rather prioritize getting some whiskey into his blood as soon as possible. Before he decides, Miller pauses and turns back to him with a car salesman's grin. "Oh, and how about some cigarettes for the road?"

"You really are trying to smoke yourself to death," David grumbles, but automatically jiggles the pack in his pocket. It had been full when he arrived at Foxhound in the early afternoon, but between the stress of avoiding Miller, the stress of actually talking to him, and feeding Miller's new habit, it is almost empty.

"Now who's the hypocrite?"

"Still the guy trying to get me to bankroll his bad habits after lecturing me about mine for years." But David does as he's asked, giving three of his five remaining cigarettes over to Miller. Two are pocketed, one clipped between tan fingers with a fond smile and raised eyebrow. David lights it for him. "I'm not going to keep you in supply for free, you know."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up about me spilling my life story for a few cigarettes."

"I wouldn't set my hopes on hearing anything honest anyway." The comeback is both dry and petty, but it hits its mark; a sad flicker tugs at Miller's porcelain smile and he blows a carefree stream of smoke above their heads.

"Now you're getting it, kid."

" _But,_ " David grates out, pressing his advantage, "I'm _not_ your kid, hell I'd say I outrank you now, but you don't have one here anymore."

"Haha, that's what you want? Does it really bother you that much?" Miller asks, and his grin only grows when David grumbles that's not the point. "Fine, fine. _David_. But while we're bargaining, I'm going to need some reading material too."

David lifts his eyebrows.

" _Actual_ reading material. La CIA would only run to the library for me when I was feeling co-operative. And I don't _like_ co-operating with feds."

David thinks it over, then nods. He has a list of books he'd like to get Miller's take on anyway, it wouldn't be a difficult request to meet. And there's something comforting in the idea of getting back to neutral territory, "I can handle that. But, while we're bargaining, you're also not my master anymore." David pauses, then pushes onward. "I need something else to call you."

There's a soft, startled snort from Miller. His glasses mirror flashes of the afternoon sun. "Guess I never told you my name."

David hesitates, debates omitting that he knows. But that particular lie feels personal, so instead he grouses, "You didn't have to."

Miller tilts his head.

"Kazuhira Miller," the name sounds awkward on David's tongue, even though his Japanese isn't bad, and he realizes it's the first time he's spoken it out loud. A complex set of emotions flit across Miller's face, and with the sun gleaming opaquely off his aviators, David can't make out half of them. "Commander Campbell told me, same time he asked me to retrieve Marv."

"Huh." Miller seems to settle on quiet good humor. "Well. That's fine. You earned it years ago."

_I wanted you to tell me_ , David doesn't say, perfectly aware of how petulant that private dissatisfaction is. "Japanese for 'peace'. Pretty ironic."

"Believe me, it didn't go unnoticed." Miller looks away, sucking a long drag on his cigarette. "So what are you after here, David? Permission to call me by my first name? What's the matter with Miller?"

That was, really, exactly what he was after. Though when put like that, it feels like yet another juvenile maneuvering to demand the respect of a mentor. "You always use _mine_."

"Oh, so I should be calling you Reese, then?"

"No, I…"

" _Snake_?"

Miller is teasing, but there's a painful twist to the word, like he cut himself handling it.

"No," he huffs out. "David is fine."

In the five months since the fall of Zanzibar Land and all that revealed, and all that went unanswered, it's occurred to David more than a few times that Snake was Big Boss's old code name.

"Mm," Miller locks his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, freeing up his hand so he can continue his slow walk back toward the offices. "No one's managed to call me Kazuhira without being patronizing since my mother passed." David follows and watches him sidelong. However Miller feels about the request, his emotions are meticulously squared away, and though David can spot the sorrow, it's brief and indistinct, as if only glimpsed between fence slats. "If you want to go that route, it has to be 'Kaz'."

"Kaz…" David repeats, and watches Miller -- watches _Kaz_ inhale on his cigarette with a savored focus, like this breath might be his last.

"Yeah," Kaz murmurs as the smoke leaves his lungs. "That'll work."

**Author's Note:**

> So that is what happens when I get way too excited about a thing. 
> 
> I do plan to write more for this. Look forward to Ocelot/Kaz shenanigans, more Kaz/David shit, and possibly even plot if I believe in myself really really hard.
> 
> If you enjoy tumbling:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
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